


Still Alive

by Laclavande



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Post-Series, canon pairings - Freeform, let’s face it if any of the muskeboys were gonna be immortal it was gonna be aramis, pagan attempts to write catholic funeral tradition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-27
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2020-03-20 00:32:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18981535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laclavande/pseuds/Laclavande
Summary: How do you know you’re immortal? Well, first you have to die.The First Minister of France is assassinated in the palace grounds and no one knows who did it. Except maybe the murdered man himself. Seemingly blessed by God, Aramis returns to the land of the living and reunites with the Musketeers to avenge his own death and save the Queen— But can he stay alive long enough?





	Still Alive

**_ONE_ **

 

_“Let us worship the grace of God for this soul, that he may have mercy on him, and be graceful, and may forgive all his sins.”_

Anne was resolute. She stood at her son’s side, staring into a candle’s flame that swayed just beyond the casket. She dared not to focus on the casket itself and what she knew to be inside it. She put the thought out of her mind as she stayed strong for her people and for the sake of her son.

Louis did not cry either, but he frowned at the casket, his young mind trying to make sense of what was happening. His father had died too, but Louis barely remembered what that occasion was like. Louis was older now, he knew what death meant, but standing in the cathedral with all those people in silence, listening to the archbishop recite, it still didn’t make sense. Aramis wasn’t supposed to die.

_“We ask the blessed Virgin and the blessed Archangel Michael and all the angels pray for him. And we adore Lord Saint Peter to whom the power hath been giveneth to release and to bond, to release from all the sins.”_

Of the three of them, it was Porthos who was most visibly emotional. His eyes were so full of tears he could barely see. Elodie was stood behind him. She put her hand on his arm and passed him the handkerchief that she had brought for herself. Porthos took it appreciatively and wiped his eyes with it before sniffing and scrunching his face to avoid more tears. Porthos had never once thought that he’d be in this position. He had always thought that he would be the first to go. Not Aramis. Never the ever-lucky Aramis. But his luck, it seemed, had run out.

Athos stood beside Porthos, his composure held by his old placid countenance. Athos had softened in recent years, no longer living with that absurd fabricated notion, one he had once confused for obligation, that he had to disguise his emotion with indifference. But on days like today, he felt reason to indulge in his old habit.

D’Artagnan swallowed his tears. His throat was thick with sadness, it took everything he had not to sob. He focused on the noble Queen. She had always been a stoic figure, and even now d’Artagnan looked to her to provide strength where he was lacking.

Their grief was amplified by memories of Treville’s death. It was like they were being forced to relive that great and painful loss, only this time without Aramis. They had been four Musketeers. Four. Even when their paths had diverged they’d always remained the Inseparables. The only thing that could separate them was death, and death, it seemed, had come.    

_“And may he be delivered from the persecution of the devil and the torment of hell and may he be led into the Tranquillity of paradise and be showneth the way to heaven and may he partake of all that is good…”_

 

⚜︎ ⚜︎ ⚜︎

 

Aramis’ head lolled about. It was hot and stuffy, his own breathing echoed back at him in the dark. He heard other noises, voices maybe, but they sounded strangely low and slow, like groaning. He couldn’t make any of it out. He felt sick and so thirsty. The last thing he remembered was falling. He fell on the gravel, in the maze in the palace gardens. He remembered the feeling of the stones digging into his cheek.

He heard chanting now. Was this purgatory? Hell? Had he died in the maze? Aramis had heard stories of people breaking their own necks by simply tripping. If that was what had happened, it was quite an undignified way to go, and not at all how Aramis had expected to die.

The chanting was becoming clearer now, no longer heard as a terrifying collective groan. Though the sound was still muffled, Aramis was beginning to recognise the prayer.

_“Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses…”_

Claustrophobia was setting in. He was becoming more aware, like he was waking from a dream. And he was remembering.

_“And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil…”_

He fell in the maze, but it wasn’t because he had tripped. He was stabbed. Many, many times. The stones he had fallen on were wet with his blood.

_“For thine is the kingdom…”_

Aramis was murdered. But he felt fine, he was still alive.

_“The power, and the glory…”_

This was his funeral. He was in his casket. They were going to bury him alive. But what about Anne? She had been with him!

_“For ever and ever—”_

“Don’t say it!” he yelled as he burst out of the casket with a sudden strength powered by adrenaline, like bolting upright from a nightmare in a cold sweat. The heavy lid banged violently on the floor and the noise echoed and reverberated throughout the whole cathedral. The sudden light was blinding, but the air was thick and cool. Aramis panted with relief as the flag that adorned his casket cascaded silently to the floor.

“I’m not dead,” he croaked, “I’m still alive. Do not say Amen.”

His eyes were level with the archbishop’s who stared back at him in shock. Poised in his grip was a jewelled chalice of holy water. Aramis grabbed it from him and gulped the water. He was breathing heavy when he was done and gingerly handed the chalice back to the archbishop who was still frozen in place. Slowly, Aramis turned around. A sea of black cloth was before him; a small crowd just in front, with another larger crowd, separated from the ceremony by guardsmen. Part of him was touched that so many had come to bid him farewell. He watched in silence as several women collapsed within seconds of each other. One woman who did not faint was Anne, who stared at him with such wide eyes and a hand across her mouth. Relief flooded him again. She was well, and also the King who took her hand to steady her.

“Wha—what is the meaning of this?” The archbishop stuttered, and he looked to the Queen who did not take her eyes off of Aramis as she tried to formulate an explanation. No matter the situation, her people would always look to her.

“A miracle,” she whispered, and soon repeated murmurings found their way around the cathedral. Aramis just sat there, confused. He found his friends front and centre behind the Queen, their hats held at their chests, also all frozen with shock. Though Porthos seemed a little happy, if only in his conclusion that Aramis’ luck with survival was not due to mortal talent. Aramis smiled at them, and they back at him, breaking out of their shock. The four Musketeers started laughing.

“He is risen!” Cried the archbishop over the echoing noise, “As Lazarus and Eutychus were resurrected! Christ Himself and the saints of Jerusalem! This is a blessed man of God!”

Then the archbishop reached over and touched Aramis, who jerked back when the stranger touched his forehead. People at the far end of the cathedral were clamouring to get closer, but the guardsmen kept them at bay. Even the people nearby were edging themselves closer, mostly court and council members, but they dared not push past the Queen. Agitated, Aramis shook the archbishop off and stood in his casket to be met by gasps and feminine sighs.

“It’s alright,” he announced, “Just a bit of a misunderstanding.”

“You sly devil,” murmured Athos, his placidity replaced with joy.

“We’ll take care of this, your majesty,” said d’Artagnan and he and Athos and Porthos moved up to the casket to face the clamouring crowd.

“You heard him,” the young Musketeer captain said, “there’s been a misunderstanding. The ceremony is over, there will be no burial. Please disperse.”

A man somewhere in the larger crowd cried out,

“Minister! Please pray for my daughter!”

And then others were shouting, asking for prayers, for healing. Someone shouted for an exorcism as the crowd grew more and more restless. More guardsmen arrived to keep them at bay. The Queen stepped forward,

“Thank you, Monseigneur Archbishop Gondi, but we’ll take it from here.”

And she motioned to some guards to pace in front as she headed towards the side entrance of the main chamber. The three Musketeers placed their hats on their heads in unison before Porthos helped Aramis down from the casket and they all followed behind the Queen and her son. The Musketeers had been preparing to carry Aramis out of the cathedral. It was a peculiar feeling to be leaving walking side by side with him instead.

Despite everything that was going on, Aramis still helped Anne into the carriage and lifted the boy in as well. She eyed him curiously, her disbelief still evident as she watched him embrace his friends. Porthos patted his back harder than usual.

“We’ll take you back to the palace and call for a doctor,” d’Artagnan told him. The captain was making it up as they went along, but it seemed the most sensible thing to do.

“But I’m perfectly fine!” Aramis argued with an air of humour. D’Artagnan’s face was dark with seriousness.

“That’s why we need a doctor,” he said, “You rose from the dead and caused chaos at your own funeral—”

“I expected nothing less,” lied Athos through a smile, Porthos chuckled. Aramis did always have a flair for the dramatic.

“You would do the same,” d’Artagnan finished, staring pointedly at his resurrected friend. Aramis nodded silently and stepped into the carriage. D’Artagnan sat with the driver while Athos and Porthos rode on the backstep.

“Mother, what is happening?”

The poor child was near tears. He had been confused enough by death when it was within normal parameters, now he was really struggling. Anne was similarly upset and confused, but within the confines of the carriage, she finally let her stoicism slip to reveal the joy that glowed beneath. The King’s mother hugged him tighter next to her and kept her arms around him for the rest of the journey.

“What is happening is just something unexpected, Louis. Sometimes unexpected things happen, and we must do our best to cope with them. But do not be afraid,” she whispered to him. Then she looked up at Aramis.

“Do not be afraid.”

 

⚜︎ ⚜︎ ⚜︎ ⚜︎

 

At the Queen’s behest, d’Artagnan, Athos, and Porthos left Aramis’ rooms while they waited for the doctor. None of the space had been touched since Aramis had last been inside, not even for the cataloguing of his belongings, of which he had few. It was only him and Anne now. She paced the room for a moment in silence while Aramis stayed in one spot, trying to act normal.

“I think I’ve been remarkably reserved considering what has happened today,” she said as she finally turned to face him.

“I agree.”

“But I am not fine, Aramis. You know me. Under all of this,” she said, gesturing at her regal form, “is a real woman with real feelings and right now she is feeling a lot.”

Tears were finally brimming, tears she had been holding back all day. She had been holding back her tears for Aramis every day since he had died, only letting them breach when she was alone in her bed. The last time anyone else had seen her cry was over his corpse where it fell. But her tears now were not just of grief, but of confusion, happiness, and recovery.

“I can understand that.”

“Because I saw you,” she said, one lonely tear rolling down her cheek, “I found you. You were— you were dead!” Another tear came down, “You were dead before I reached you. Definitely dead. You were _definitely_ dead.”

She spoke in a panic, the vision of her white dress stained red with his blood in front of her eyes, his corpse littered with dozens of wounds, his entire abdomen shredded.

“Well as you can see, your majesty, you were wrong.”

Aramis took her hands in his to comfort her. He had been making his way over since he had first seen her tears. His hands were warm. At this point, she should not have been surprised by that, but she was.

“Insolent,” smiled Anne. He guided her to the bed and let her sit. He stood nearby, hanging on to the bedpost.

“It’s a miracle,” he shrugged dismissively.

After a moment, Anne stood from the bed and crossed herself before kneeling before Aramis, much to his dismay. He immediately helped her up.

“No, your majesty, please.”

“I always knew you were a man touched by God, Aramis. This is your destiny.”

“My destiny?”

“You have another chance, one so very few are fortunate enough to receive. You must bring justice to your assassin, Aramis. My life could be in danger, as could our son’s. If someone can succeed in killing you, in the grounds of the palace no less, then they are most dangerous indeed. I fear for the kingdom. You must do something with this chance you have.”

  


⚜︎ ⚜︎ ⚜︎ ⚜︎

 

Aramis still bore the scars from every wound he had received in the maze. They crisscrossed his torso front and back like the tight weave of a fisherman’s net. Pink and raised, they still had the mortician’s messy stitches. Aramis lay on the bed as his friends helped the doctor to remove the blood-caked thread from his body.

When it was done, the doctor felt for his pulse at his wrists and at his neck. Then he put his head on his bare chest, listening for a heartbeat. He asked Aramis to sit up, and the doctor held across his ribs, pushing up under his chest and he told him to breathe deep. His chest swelled and the doctor’s hands moved with his breathing.

“Say ahh.”

And he looked inside his mouth.

“Will you permit me to cut you, only slightly? Nothing more than a cat scratch.”

And he cut him. He bled.

Finally, the doctor took Aramis’ hand. He examined the fingers, pressing them.

“Well he’s definitely not dead,” was his conclusion as he dropped Aramis’ hand and turned to the others in the room.

“Thank you, doctor for your incredible insight,” d’Artagnan sighed, dropping his folded arms. The doctor muttered,

“And he does not appear to be _undead_ …”

“Is there any possible medical explanation for what happened?”

The doctor stood back from his patient as he began redressing. He looked d’Artagnan in the eye and in a low voice said,

“I cannot explain the work of God, Captain. Can you?”

When the doctor left, Aramis silently walked into the next room. A stout globe sat in its stand next to his writing desk. As the others followed him, Aramis opened the globe. Inside was a collection of strong liquor and, conveniently, four glasses surrounded the bottles. Aramis picked up a mostly empty bottle of brandy and held it out to offer it to the others. They all shook their heads to decline. Aramis poured himself a drink as Porthos sank into the settee and asked,

“So what now?”

The room was silent as Aramis downed his drink, and it stayed silent as he poured himself another.

“The Queen wants me to bring justice to the assassin that killed me.”

This caught everyone’s attention. D’Artagnan was stood with his arms folded again, while Athos was leaning on the back of an ornate desk chair.

“Well good, that’s exactly what you should do,” he said.

Aramis shook his head and sipped his drink before plopping himself down next to Porthos. Athos shoved the chair back into place harsher than necessary.

“How can you of all people sit idly by and do nothing when something miraculous has occurred?!”

“Very easily,” was Aramis’ reply into his glass as he took another sip.

“How can you say that? You have more respect for God than anyone else I know. Are you not also a soldier, a man of honour?”

Aramis bolted out of the settee and Porthos followed him, growing concerned.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me!” He shouted, exasperated, “Nobody does! And none of you know what it was like to actually die, to be murdered. And waking up in that box…”

His dark eyes were glazed over, haunted by the experience. Then quietly he said,

“I am _scared_ , Athos.”

“Would you rather be dead?”

“No!”

“Then shut up!”

“Hey!” Boomed Porthos, “I think we all need to calm down a bit, eh?”

With Porthos putting his hands on them to separate them, the arguing pair settled back into themselves.

“We can all agree that today has been pretty mad, yeah?” Porthos said, “And Aramis, we do sympathise, even Athos. Though he’s got a funny way of showin’ his sensitivity.”

Athos sighed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “The last few days have been… Difficult.”

“Good. Alright,” said Porthos, and he turned his attention to the resurrected man in question, “Aramis? They’re right. Athos and the Queen, they’re right— you have to do this.”

“But I-”

“We’ll be with you,” said d’Artagnan. He finally unfolded his arms stepped forward, “Every step.”

Porthos nodded,

“Chances are, whoever it was doesn’t know they failed. We have that advantage.”

“And this time it’s not just one of us,” Athos said, a hand on Aramis’ shoulder. The hand that held the last of his brandy lowered.

“They’ll have to face four Musketeers… All for one.”

Athos put his hand into the circle they’d formed, and one by one the others all entered their hands in keeping with their sacred ritual not oft-performed.

“ **_And one for all._ **”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was partly inspired by a fanvid I made a long time ago about Aramis’ survivor’s guilt and his love of life. It’s called ‘Still Alive’ too but with the concept of this fic in mind it definitely changes the original meaning a bit lol. Let me know what you think of the story so far!


End file.
